


The More the Merrier

by kait_lain919



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Dominant John, M/M, Male Slash, Multi, Oral Sex, PWP, Sherlock/Supernatural Crossover, Threesome - M/M/M, bottom!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kait_lain919/pseuds/kait_lain919
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has had his eye on the hot new American bounty hunter for a long time... is he finally ready to come and play?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More the Merrier

John walked into the small storefront, breathing in the smell of stale coffee and motor oil that somehow permeated the office of the best bounty hunting team in the country. The office belonged to three Americans, a pair of brothers named Winchester and their third wheel, who he only knew as Castiel. The brothers were nowhere to be found, but Castiel was perched stiffly on a desk chair, squinting intently at the screen of the desktop as though if he stared hard enough it may unlock the secrets of the universe for him.

Finally, John had Castiel alone.

John had spent the last months since the trio had arrived with little explanation in London determining exactly what the relationship was between Castiel and the other men. He had determined that Dean, the older brother, wanted in Castiel’s pants, and that perhaps Castiel also wanted in Dean’s, but that both had their heads so far up their arses that it was nowhere near close to happening. Thus, John felt totally justified in what he was about to do.

“Hello, Castiel.”

Castiel jumped off the chair, nearly falling to the floor in his haste to stand.

“Hello, John. What can I help you with today?” Castiel sounded, as always, like gravel scraping down a rock face coated in rich, aged whiskey and layered with mountain fog. He also managed, despite the pure sex of his voice, to sound the epitome of innocent and confused, the impression of which was helped along by the puppyish tilt of his head and the slight furrow between his shocking blue eyes.

John was suddenly nervous. He ran a palm over the bristles of honey blonde hair cut regulation short adorning his head. How the hell do you invite a man for a threesome when you’re not even positive he’s interested in sex, let alone sex with two other men?

John cleared his throat, then swallowed hard. Castiel simply kept staring, head tilted and expression slowly shifting from polite interest to concern as John stayed silent. John, realizing this, opened his mouth to speak.

“Actually, Castiel, I need your help.” The words came a bit breathlessly, and possibly John sounded a bit like a teenager with a puberty problem, but at least he’d spoken.

“Let me call Dean and Sam. They will want to know we have a new job.” Castiel’s voice was even and serious as always. He always reminded John of a professor he had in medical school who thought every problem, be it a broken coffee stir or the raging debate between Creationism and Evolution, deserved the utmost consideration.

“No! No. Uh. Actually, Castiel, I, uh. I don’t need the others. Just you. It’s. It’s Sherlock. He’s in a bit of a funk without a case, and you always cheer him up. So. I was wondering if you would mind coming by the flat and visiting awhile. Perhaps for tea? Or dinner? We could… we could play games or some such thing. Make a night of it.” Dear GOD, would he never stop rambling? John was blushing profusely, and wondering why he had to say Castiel’s name EVERY TIME he started a sentence. He was so busy berating himself for sounding like a cock that he nearly missed Castiel’s answer.

“…Sherlock is a friend of mine, so I suppose the appropriate thing to do would be to accept your offer and assist in any way that I can. Should I bring something to the gathering? I know that it is often considered polite to bring a covered dish, or a gift for the hostess. But there isn’t a hostess in this situation, is there? Should I bring a host gift? Does one give a gift to a host if there is no hostess? But what if there is both a host and a hostess? Should one bring a gift for both? I…”

John was amused by the inner workings of his friend’s very unconventional brain, but he was too excited at the prospect of Castiel in his flat to stay and listen to him ramble.

“Castiel. Thank you so much, you’ve no idea how much this will help get Sherlock out of his sulk. No need to bring anything, but thanks for the offer. Just come ‘round about eight tonight?”

“Of course, John. Eight is acceptable. Are you certain there is nothing I could bring to ease the burden of your duties as host?” The sincerity and genuine concern in Castiel’s face is the only thing that kept John from laughing outright. Instead, he suppressed a giggle and schooled his face into a serious mask.

“I am sure. There is nothing I need save your coming to help cheer up Sherlock. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, John. Have a good day. I will see you at your flat at 8 pm.”

John lifted a hand in farewell, which Castiel stared at in consideration before nodding and returning to his computer.

 

When John arrived back at the flat, Sherlock was face down on the sofa, bath robe tangled around his legs, mahogany curls flat against one side of his head while the other side was wild enough to compensate for the insubordination of the flat side. When John slammed the door to 221 B, he watched as Sherlock studiously ignored him, save the involuntary twitch of a finger. He grinned, feeling affection he still did not quite understand well in his chest for his sulky, childish genius.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock did not move, nor did he look at John. He was in full-blown sulk mode, and nothing but a case or sex would pull him from his funk.

“I’m standing behind you, naked as the day I was born, wearing an elephant banana hammock and fucking myself on a butt plug bigger than your head.”

Sherlock tried to hide his grin, and cracked an eye at John. The clear, bright seafoam gleamed beneath thick lashes as Sherlock replied, with as much boredom as he could muster, “John. Don’t be ridiculous. You did not have sufficient time to take off your clothes, let alone prepare yourself with a plug. And I know you did not leave nude. Also, you cannot be naked as the day you were born if you are wearing an “elephant banana hammock.” You are being insufferable.”

John laughed, and crossed the room to drop a kiss on Sherlock’s unruly head. “I could have gotten naked in the stairwell. Could have prepped myself there as well.”

“I would have heard you.”

“Ball gag.”

“John.” Sherlock was still acting bored and exasperated, but the thought of the ball gag had a very interested tone leaking into his voice. Well, well. John’s cock twitched at the images flashing across his brain as he wondered what Sherlock found so interesting about that last statement.

“I have a surprise for you, if you’ll get off the couch and take a bloody shower.” John put as much steel in his voice as he could without going “Captain Watson” on Sherlock. That was reserved for more… intimate commands.

“I despise surprises. You can’t possibly surprise me anyway. I would know what it was before you presented it to me.” Sherlock sounded prissy, and John smiled. He also heard a rustling from the direction of the couch, and by the time he turned around with two mugs of tea, Sherlock was sitting up on the couch, bare feet planted firmly side by side on the floor.

“All right then. What is the surprise if you already know?” John handed Sherlock his tea and took his customary place in his chair by the fire.

“Well, I have to take a shower for it, so it involves other people. Or sex. Because you refuse to have sex with me if I haven’t showered in more than thirty six hours.” Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his mouth, tapping his lips with the sides of his fingers. John looked on in amusement. “You did not say, however, that I needed to get dressed. So I lean toward sex. Is my surprise sex?” Sherlock tried to keep his voice completely neutral, but John could hear the undertones of desire in the question.

“It may involve sex. That is actually an unknown variable of the surprise.” John smirked and sipped his tea when Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this new knowledge.

“It involves other people, and possibly sex. And I don’t have to leave the house. John.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened as he said his lover’s name. John knew before Sherlock made his next statement that he’d figured it out.

“John. Did you talk to Castiel?”

“Yes. He’ll be here at 8.” John’s cock, already interested in the conversation, quickly stood at attention at the look he was getting from Sherlock.

“Come shower with me.”

John did not need asked twice.

 

Castiel was not sure what to do.

He’d been invited to dinner with John and Sherlock, but Sam and Dean were not invited. He knew Dean did not like Sherlock, and Dean was his friend. Should he have declined the invitation for that reason? Sam liked John, and he thought Sherlock was “fascinating.” Should he have asked if the brothers could come, too?

Did he want them to come?

Castiel knew that he loved Dean. He would do anything for him. But after that disastrous attempt at explaining his feelings back in Evansville, Indiana, before they left the states for good, he was loathe to express more than easy friendship toward the other man.

John was attractive to him, physically, in much the same way Dean was. Though John was shorter, he was still powerfully built and carried himself like a soldier. He had beautiful clear blue eyes that held a lifetime of pain behind the more recent emotions of happiness and love that could be seen there. And Castiel thought, though he couldn’t be sure, that he had seen the flash of desire in those eyes as they looked at him across the counter when they were doing business. But John was with Sherlock. They were obviously involved sexually, and Castiel knew that, though they were not overly affectionate in public, the two men were very much in love. He had noticed the plain, heavy silver bands they wore on their left ring fingers and knew what that meant. Surely, then, John did not desire Castiel the way that Castiel had come to desire John?

He wondered, as he dressed himself for the evening, what it would be like to be with both John and Sherlock, together. John, all barely contained power and pure male attraction, paired with the lithe grace and firmly contained, simmering passion that was Sherlock, would be an explosive combination, Castiel was sure of it. Sherlock would want to take his lover apart, make him beg for release. John would be raw emotion, pinning him down and taking, and making him praise whatever God there may be that he could submit.

Castiel had to duck back into the bathroom for a few minutes before he could finish putting on his pants.

 

At 8 pm sharp, there was a firm rap on the door of 221 B Baker Street.

Three men breathe in deeply, and the anticipation hung heavy in the air like smoke on the water of a mountain pond.

John opened the door to take in all six feet of Castiel, clad in dark denim that clung to his thighs and his ass as though it was painted on. His white button down was tucked neatly into the waistband of his jeans so that the narrowness of his hips was highlighted. The shirt was open at the throat, and the sleeves were rolled to reveal tautly muscled forearms that flexed as they supported the dish of casserole Castiel held. John nearly groaned when he smelled the cologne the man was wearing; some dark, woody, nearly metallic scent with hints of pine and leather. He smelled like sex outside in a thunderstorm, and John had to shake himself before he simply licked him up.

Sherlock could see how Castiel’s presence was affecting John, and that reaction made his pulse race and his cock twitch. He thought Castiel was interesting, which was saying something. He was highly intelligent, but distinctly awkward in social situations. He could see himself in Castiel, and though he would never mention it to John, he found this similarity both comforting and sexy.

Castiel caught his breath as he took in John and Sherlock framed in the doorway. The shorter man wore loose-fitting, worn out jeans slung low on his hips, and an army-green T-shirt that showcased his muscular arms and chest. Behind him, Sherlock, in neat, dark slacks and an eggplant-colored dress shirt, looked the epitome of composed. The two together formed a contrast that represented both ends of the spectrum of Castiel’s desires; at the one end, John looked rough and ready, and at the other, Sherlock waited, patient and predatory. Castiel swallowed hard. What had he gotten himself into?

Dinner was strained. They laughed and talked seemingly normally, but the undertones of sex and desire ran rampant. The three men couldn’t keep their eyes off each other. John would watch the way Castiel’s shoulders flexed under his crisp white shirt, then compare the sight to Sherlock’s leaner frame shifting under the deep purple fabric he wore. Castiel’s eyes bored into John’s skin when he raised his arms and exposed a strip of taut golden flesh between his jeans and the hem of his T-shirt, or fixated on the soft, pale triangle of skin at the base of Sherlock’s neck where his shirt was unbuttoned. Sherlock devoured the strong line of Castiel’s jaw, covered in dark stubble, and imagined what it would look like next to the smooth, freshly shaven skin of John’s face. Each man shifted in his chair every few minutes, trying to find a comfortable way to situate their half-hard cocks that wouldn’t make them obvious to the rest of the party.

After dinner, John suggested they move the party to the living room. Castiel settled on the sofa, while John and Sherlock took their armchairs by the fire. John suggested they play charades. Castiel seemed surprised at this, but when Sherlock expressed his interest, agreed without fuss. Castiel was the first up, and it seemed John and Sherlock had already made up slips of paper with actions to pantomime on them. Castiel stuck his hand in the bowl and fished out a slip of paper.

Fellatio

Castiel’s eyes widened, and a soft blush rode high on his cheekbones. He raised an eyebrow, but decided this was his opportunity to show them what he’s got, so to speak. He smiles, then asks if he can have an assistant. Sherlock volunteers.

Castiel’s smile turns predatory, and he silently walks to Sherlock, kneeling between his feet where he sits in the chair. Deep blue eyes locked on sea green ones, Castiel carefully grasps Sherlock’s hips and scoots him lower in the chair. Never breaking his stare, Castiel slowly lowers the zipper on Sherlock’s slacks, noting the very prominent bulge as he does so. The button comes next, and when he grasps the waistband and begins to tug, Sherlock lifts his hips and allows pants and all to slide to his ankles. His cock bobs free, rising tall and slender from his dark thatch of hair. Castiel studies it for a moment, taking in the swollen pink head, already glistening with a drop of precum at the tip, following the lines of uncut foreskin down to the silky curls spreading from the base of his glorious cock and over his balls. Finally, he licks his lips and opens his mouth. He flattens his tongue and licks a thick, wet stripe up Sherlock’s cock, base to tip. Sherlock’s breath hitches, and John shifts in his chair, looking for a better angle to watch from. Castiel licks again, and again, wetting the entirety of Sherlock’s cock before closing his lips over the head and running his tongue under the fold of Sherlock’s foreskin. He tasted the bitter salt of precum and the clean taste of skin, smelled the virile musk of man that clung to Sherlock despite his shower and meticulous grooming. Castiel couldn’t hold back his groan, and the vibrations of it sent delicious shockwaves through Sherlock’s cock and straight to his core, causing him to throw his head back and his hand to land, seemingly of its own accord, to tangle in Castiel’s hair. Castiel sucked, still running his tongue around Sherlock’s throbbing head as he pulled back, then made sure to let the tip of Sherlock’s cock rub the roof of his mouth as he bobbed back down.

When Sherlock is a panting, groaning mess, Castiel pops off. He ignores Sherlock’s whine of protest and turns around to lock eyes with John. When John sees the burning behind the blue of Castiel’s eyes, and the way his mouth is spit-slick and swollen from its assault on Sherlock’s cock, John’s hard-won control snaps. He lunges from his chair to pin Castiel back against Sherlock’s chair, Castiel’s hair brushing Sherlock’s sensitive flesh and causing the three of them to moan in unison as John devours Castiel’s mouth. It’s a feral battle for domination, full of thrusting tongues and scraping teeth. Castiel pulls back, fists his hand in the short bristles of John’s hair, and ravages his neck, licking and biting until angry welts rise, John’s hands like vises on his shoulder and in his hair as his chest heaves and their cocks throb. Sherlock fists his hand in Castiel’s hair, dragging his head back against a creamy white thigh and giving John free reign to devour Castiel’s collarbones. John takes Castiel’s wrists in his hands and pins them to the arms of the chair, climbing into his lap to straddle him. Sherlock’s legs frame the scene, and Sherlock allows his hands to roam as he watches, dragging fingernails up John’s back and pulling Castiel’s hair just to hear the noises the other men make when that tiny spark of pain fuels their frenzied pleasure.

There are too many clothes left on. John decides this is unacceptable, and grasps the front of Castiel’s shirt in his fists and pulls, buttons popping and flying in every direction as he forces it from Castiel’s shoulders. The moan that rips from the other man’s throat, and the way he deepens the kiss they are locked in tells John that Castiel doesn’t mind in the least the loss of his shirt. Castiel’s long fingered hands find their way under John’s T-shirt, blunt nails scraping down his sides and sliding into his pants to cup his arse and squeeze, hard. Castiel breaks the kiss to turn his face and nuzzle Sherlock’s neglected, aching cock. Sherlock hisses in a breath, and at John’s heated look begins to slowly unbutton his shirt as John watches, Castiel now kissing and licking Sherlock’s cock while he kneads his fingers into the firm globes of John’s ass. John keeps his stare locked on Sherlock’s elegant fingers as they slip buttons from their holes, then lunges upward to push the fabric from Sherlock’s shoulders and latch onto this smooth skin of his shoulder with the hunger of a man starving in the desert. Castiel stops his worship of Sherlock’s cock long enough to strip his clothes off, standing naked behind John. Sherlock can see him past John’s shoulder, broad shoulders and narrow hips, body rippling with lithe runner’s muscles, cock surprisingly thick and sturdy as it bobs in front of him, the lack of foreskin showing off the throbbing, red head to a very attractive advantage. Before Sherlock can fully finish admiring the sight, Castiel is behind John where he kneels with knees on the edge of the seat of the chair, on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, and he is reaching around John to unbutton his jeans. He eases them off John, who never breaks contact with Sherlock’s neck as he allows Castiel to remove jeans and pants. John has removed his T-shirt and is devouring Sherlock’s mouth when he goes stock still, muscles tense, and Sherlock knows this means something John likes very much is happening.

When Sherlock leans around John to find the source of his pleasure, he sees Castiel with his face buried between the hemispheres of John’s ass, jaw working as he so obviously runs his tongue over John’s hole. The idea of Castiel eating John out while Sherlock sucks his cock is suddenly too appealing for Sherlock to ignore, so he slips down off the chair and onto the floor, where John’s heavy cock hangs from a thatch of golden curls. A drop of precum drips from the slit and onto Sherlock’s lips, and John watches as Sherlock slowly runs his tongue over his mouth to clean it off. Sherlock then runs the tip of his tongue over John’s cock, just the barest of pressure over the sensitive spot under the head, and John moans, “Oh, FUCK.” Castiel groans. And Sherlock can see his cock, that glorious, swollen head unobscured by foreskin, throbbing within his reach, so as he sucks John’s cock down, Sherlock grasps Castiel’s cock in his hand and runs his thumb through the precum, smearing the sticky lubricant over Castiel’s cock to help smooth the way for his hand. Castiel’s knees nearly buckle, and he thrusts harder with his tongue into John’s hole. John chants obscenities, and with every “Oh, fuck. Shit. God. Oh. FUCK. FUCK. Sher- Cas- FUCK” that John says, Castiel shakes harder, his mouth and hips thrusting faster as he listens. Sherlock and John realize at nearly the same moment that Castiel is very much affected by dirty talk. They had also noticed his reaction to being pinned down by John. John and Sherlock lock eyes, and John nods.

“Castiel! Sherlock! ON YOUR KNEES. NOW!”

Captain John Watson has arrived.

Castiel and Sherlock scramble to do as they are told, kneeling side by side on the rug. John paces in front of them, hands behind his back, and grabs Castiel’s chin when he makes eye contact. “Did I tell you to look at me, Castiel?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I suggest you don’t, unless I give you permission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Castiel lowers his eyes to the floor.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Why are you wearing pants?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Take them off.”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock removes his pants quickly, returning to kneel in front of John with eyes downcast in seconds.

“Sherlock. You will kiss Castiel. Castiel, your hands will remain behind your back. If you make a noise or touch Sherlock, you will be punished. Sherlock may touch you anywhere he wants, but NOT your cock. Is this understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Both men answer, and then Sherlock moves to kneel in front of Castiel. He looks at him for a moment, then wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist, pulling him to his chest, and running his long fingers through Castiel’s perpetual bedhead. He pressed his lips to Castiel’s mouth and kissed him like he was sampling fine wine, all soft touches of the lips and slow caresses with his tongue. John circled them, watching, before he knelt behind Castiel and the click of a cap opening could be heard. Castiel barely registered it; his senses were melted along with his brain from the intoxicating way Sherlock was using his mouth. John’s hands came up to run fingertips along Castiel’s sides, and over his ass. Castiel shuddered. John’s fingers slipped low, tracing the cleft of Castiel’s ass before Castiel felt lube drip down that same cleft. John pressed in, fingers slipping and sliding in the slickness, before they reached Castiel’s hole. When he felt the brush of fingertips at his entrance, he bucked back into them, gasping. John chuckled, but gave Castiel what he wanted. He pressed a finger in, feeling Castiel clench and relax as he accepted the intrusion. He worked his way to two, then three fingers as Castiel fell apart around him in the capable hands of Sherlock. When John brushed his prostate, Castiel nearly screamed. His groan was visceral, animal. Sweat poured from him, and his breath came in short, harsh pants. Sherlock was watching his lover skillfully make another man fall apart, and his cock ached to be touched. He whimpered, and John realized the problem. He chuckled, then told Sherlock to come to him. He pulled his fingers from Castiel’s body, ignoring the pathetic whine that emanated from the shaking man beneath him.

“Fuck him.”

Sherlock looked at John with pupils blown wide, black nearly swallowing the green of his irises, and swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.”

Castiel keened, knowing what was coming, and writhed in his kneeling position, hands still behind his back, forehead resting on the seat of the chair this all started in. He unconsciously pushed back with his hips, widened his stance, presented his ass for the taking, and Sherlock couldn’t take it. He had planned to tease and torment, but instead simply lined up with that glorious, slick, hot hole and pushed in. Slowly but steadily he pressed forward until he bottomed out, balls slapping wetly at the lube-covered ass cheeks of the American groaning under him.

“Please.”

Sherlock stilled. His cock throbbed inside Castiel, who pushed back at him.

“Please, Sherlock. Fuck me. Please.”

Sherlock moaned, and began to piston his hips, flesh slapping flesh as he pounded his cock in and out of Castiel, brushing his prostate with each thrust and turning him into a moaning, writhing, incoherent mess.

John’s neglected cock throbbed and ached, so he wriggled under Castiel until they were facing each other’s cocks. Castiel, even in his state of blissed-out mindlessness, managed to wrap his lips around John’s cock and suck him down with an exquisite combination of lips and tongue. John proceeded to take Castiel’s cock in his own mouth, lapping and sucking until Castiel matched his rhythm on John’s cock to John’s rhythm on his. Then, John matched his rhythm to the rhythm of Sherlock thrusting into Castiel’s body, and the three of them fucked and sucked in unison, movements becoming ever more frenzied as they went. Sherlock could barely contain himself between the sensation of Castiel’s tight hole and the sight of John and Castiel’s mouths stretched tight around each other’s cocks. His pace increased, and so did the pace of John and Castiel’s sucking.

Castiel was the first to break. The relentless pounding of Sherlock’s cock into him, hitting his prostate and making him see sparks, paired with the strong, steady suction of John’s lips and his flitting tongue ripped the orgasm from his body before he even knew it was happening. With an animalistic shout, his vision blacked out and his entire body tautened and shook. Sherlock, already on the edge of release, felt Castiel clench around him and increased the speed of his thrusts until he was frenzied. It took only a few thrusts at this pace before he faltered and simply buried himself as deeply as he could into Castiel’s body and shot load after load of sticky white cum into him. John swallowed Castiel’s cum, every drop of it, and loved the salty taste of it in his mouth, so like Sherlock’s and yet completely different. Castiel, even through his own violent orgasm, kept his mouth on John’s cock. When John still hadn’t come after Sherlock slid bonelessly to the floor, Castiel looked back at him, sucked on a finger, and, with a smirk on his face, sucked John down hard, thrusting a finger into his hole at the same time, then using his other hand to roll John’s balls between his fingers and palm. This was all it took before John was groaning and shooting his load into Castiel’s waiting mouth. When he’d finished, John simply collapsed back onto the rug, and Castiel fell sideways to lay between John and Sherlock. The sound of panting filled the room for a moment, and the three could easily have fallen asleep there if it were not for the shrill ring of a cell phone sounding throughout the apartment. Castiel groaned, then reached for his pants. He read the cell display, then flipped open the phone.

“Dean?” A pause. “We have a job? Do you need me right now?” Another pause. “Alright, I am on my way. I will be there soon. Yes, Dean. No, Dean. I am fine, Dean. I am with John and Sherlock. They invited me for dinner. Why am I out of breath? Uh. Don’t worry about that, Dean. I will see you soon.” Castiel hung up the phone with a flush that was not entirely from his previous activity on his face. John and Sherlock laughed.

“When he gets his head out of his arse and realizes he loves you, bring him by. The more the merrier.” John winked as he said it, and Castiel smiled.

“It’s a pity, nobody ever guessed what was on my slip of paper. I suppose that means I am very bad at charades.”

The sound of laughter rang from the flat long after Castiel started for home, and Dean.


End file.
